Christopher Mulrooney








what if these were angels of good order

the house swept clean the ardor of a cloudy day

and the drops of rain solace for your tears

a kind of official sanction then for loving

in the Christian sense the Summa Theologica







you can inject it or let it ferment

so that they ripen yeasty bubbles

fine as mint in a julep thatís all

consider in a cavernous fountain

grottoed the nixie of the spring







the figures of the fingers played rapidly

over the strutting keyboard you were marshaled

in several tiers or strata all at once

the cascade or wasserfall the long climb

in aŽry liveliness to become a cloud





the rack


let us expostulate and expound

as certain others have done

Mailer and Bradbury for one

and all in the doggy pound

of a book rack going round





the linguist


are the trollops doing considering

anything at all in the lie of business

what lie you mean line donít you

who is a hero Iíll tell you who

he who makes no wisecrack see







well there are candles and flowers

and it might be anything

afterward cakes and coffee

thatís it the bubbly if it ainít

New Yearís itís something else again







ever watchful ever vigilant not like Purcellís

Aeneas ever gentle ever smiling and the cares

of life beguiling just the Night Watch

going its rounds in a cosmopolitan city

rebuking Rembrandt even if he slips





a wee colloquy


leave us not forget so please you

what strife we are in says the soldier in the cartoon drawing

aye says his bearded likewise chum Ďtis so

we might abandon us to the heights of high phantasy

did we not recall that foxes have holes and so do we







afterthoughts that long lingering look behind

smokily reflected in the glass perhaps the neverwhich

whateversome trait you were kind seeking out of only

six or seven tread figures in the soft pavement at the height of summer

will be divined in a police laboratory after the fact long after





bucket seats


the latest canopy of driving in the rain at one oíclock

in the morning noon or night not the springy pew of a buckboard bench

more like a folded lap that sometimes left out in the cold

bristles up a bit when first approached but lets out steam like a sigh